In Return for Brotherly Love
by Seta Suzume
Summary: The changing landscape of the Kimblee family- as viewed through the life of their second son.


Oct. 10, 188x

The birth was more difficult than Lydia had expected. This was, after all, her second child. But she knew, before she even saw his face, that Lon, her second son, was worth it.

James was proud and made sure everyone in town knew about it, giving all his workers the day off in celebration. In this way, Lon Thomas Kimblee began life in the good graces of nearly every person in the town of Fernburg.

Solf's yellow eyes stretched wide as he stood on a chair to look at his brother. He had never seen such a tiny baby before. And to think this helpless pink thing was a part of his family. Solf was not yet five years old. He had hoped for a brother, not a sister. It felt like he had waited for Lon for an eternity.

"Mom, will it be a long time until Lon can play with me?" He reached out and touched his brother's miniature hand. Lon's brown eyes alit on his face for the first time. Although Solf doubted a newborn could think much at all, he couldn't help but wonder what Lon was thinking as he stared at him.

"I know you're very patient, Solf, but it will be a while," Lydia answered. "You can still be a big help though by giving me a hand with him."

James had only had sisters. "You better be a nice big brother, Solf. Lon will be depending on you."

"I know you'll do just fine," Lydia reassured him, "You're a good boy."

Solf nodded and continued to stare down at the baby. _His_ brother, with big dark eyes- much like his mother's, nothing like his own. _His _brother. His to love and protect and teach. The first (and perhaps only) person he felt an obligation toward. "Lon, I'm Solf. Your big brother," he introduced himself. He smiled, sure of his ability to be the best older brother in Fernburg.

Oct. 10, 189x

Lon did not say anything about his birthday. He hadn't said anything in the proceeding days either. That was one of those things about living with Solf. Solf hadn't said anything about the approaching day. He'd made no sign that he was planning anything either. But he hadn't forgotten. He never forgot anything.

The two brothers went quietly about their own business. This would be Lon's first birthday away from his parents' home. He was curious as to how it would be spent. This morning, he would play the waiting game. Breakfast was coffee and toast. As lunch approached, his expectations grew.

"Hey, you want me to whip you up my specialty?" Solf called out of the kitchen. When Lon peeked in on him, he was holding up the frying pan with a self-satisfied grin on his face. They did this often. A grilled cheese and fried egg sandwich (with a little bacon packed in for good measure) was just the dish Solf loved to make.

"Yes, please," Lon agreed. He wasn't in the mood to make his own lunch. However, this could not be a celebration for his birthday.

He returned to his desk and his drafting. He had been trying to put his mind to an alchemical problem of Solf's for a few days now. He'd tried one thing and then another, but nothing seemed to be coming together. Still, he wasn't at the end of his rope yet.

From the kitchen he could hear Solf laughing to himself as he flipped sandwiches. He loved to do the things he was skilled at (which were, in Lon's opinion, quite a few). Lunch would be good. Lon thought they might even have a few remaining strawberries they could add to the meal. Good, but not special. Regardless, he smiled at the sizzle of eggs on the pan.

"We're going out tonight," Solf informed him over lunch.

"Where?"

"I can't say," his brother answered enigmatically. He loved to keep secrets. ...he really was such a tease.

"I'll find out when you tell the cabby," Lon grinned, thinking he had finally hit upon a way of outfoxing his wily brother.

But it was not to be. "Nice try, Lon, but our friendly neighborhood hack already knows where I plan on taking you. Don't think you're out of my clutches yet." As pleased as Lon had been, Solf appeared even more satisfied as he played his trump card.

"The Ishvalan cabby? You've even got him involved in this? Goodness, Solf, you're more a weasel than I'd ever guessed!" Lon laughed, taken aback by this bold maneuver. Solf had planned something wonderful after all!

"It wasn't difficult," Solf folded his hands, "He likes you, you know? Anyway, be sure to dress your best." And, for the time being, that was all he would say on the subject.

That day's projects did not proceed very far or very fast. Inevitably Lon found himself side-tracked by daydreams of what mysterious outing awaited him.

They went down to the street to meet their cab in full regalia. Solf, in white from head to toe, favored a white carnation at his breast. To his brother's front he pinned a daisy, white and simple. "It suits your character," he explained.

"Good evening, Mr. Kimblee, Lon," the taxi driver greeted them. They got into his vehicle and he drove away smoothly, just as Solf had said he would. "Lon," Qarash observed modestly as he slowed, pulling up to their destination, "You look really handsome."

"Th-thank you, Qarash," the birthday boy answered meekly. He always blushed when such attention was paid to him. He hadn't exactly been gregarious back in Fernburg, but ever since moving to South City, he was just plain shy.

"Here's your stop." The Ishvalan accepted his fare (plus a tip from Solf) and tipped his cap to his passengers as they got out.

"It's the Red Wing!" Lon gazed up at the brightly lit sign of the restaurant. It had to be the classiest (not to mention, the most expensive) place he had ever patronized and that had only been once before, when Mom had come out to visit them ("To see that I'm properly coddling you and haven't dragged you into a life of crime," Solf had explained her reasons for coming, putting his own unique spin on things, as he usually did). Of course, Solf had picked the place out to impress Mom. "I wanted to come back here!"

"I know. You want to order the carbonara again, right? Make sure and save room for dessert too." Solf held the door and ushered him inside. The wait was negligible, as they had a reservation. It was times like this that left Lon thinking he had the most wonderful brother in the world. The bread, the salad, the carbonara, the sparkling cider, and finally, the chocolate brownie cake. All of them were divine.

"Now, I hope that meal hasn't put you to sleep, because there's one more stop on this birthday tour before we head home."

"Something else? Oh, you've pulled out all the stops this time." Lon was caught up in a happy daze midway between delight and embarrassment. It felt like he was high up on a peak with the stars swirling around his head. He could imagine it enveloping him- the northern aurora borealis.

"Well, drum up some excitement in your step." He left a gaudy tip for the dapper dark-skinned waiter. "It's not far from here, so we can walk," Solf unfurled his plan as the bag check counter handed over his hat and their coats, "It's a hidden gem of a spot. Classy, energetic, you'll like the music..."

"Solf, you're taking me dancing!" Lon gushed, hopping higher into the air with his next step than was natural to the amusement of the nearby wait staff.

"Of course." He tipped his hat and closed the door, crossing the threshold out into the night. "I love to dance just as much as you do. Anyway, I know you don't have any friends out in the city yet, and the dance floor is the only place you're brave enough to talk to girls, so..."

"Don't remind me!" He swung a joking punch his brother's way and Solf dodged easily.

They passed in and out of the theatrical spotlight of the yellow street lamps all the way to the lively dance hall, where the night whirled away in a downpour of jazz and swing and smiles.

By the time it was over, Solf had half a dozen numbers in his pocket and Lon could barely keep his eyes open on the cab ride home. Qarash lingered outside the building to see to it that the brothers made it safely inside before driving himself home. The sight of a light in a third story window was his signal to go. He had extended his hours that evening at Solf's request. It had been an easy decision to make.

Oct. 10, 190x

"He would be twenty-three today," Lydia sobbed, "My poor, poor Lon."

James wasn't good at expressing his feelings in words, nor was he particularly skilled at comforting his wife. He simply stood behind her in the doorway to the room that had once belonged to their younger son. He put his hands into his pockets. Neither of his sons had been exactly what he had wished for, but that didn't mean he would have ever remotely desired for such a terrible tempest to strike the two of them. James had always seen a lot of Lydia in Lon. He was a sensitive artistic type- a musician.

Lon's room had been left waiting for him when he departed, headed for South City, the same as Solf's. But now Solf's bedroom languished with a growing coat of dust. It had never been explicitly said, but Solf had been directly involved in his brother's death. James knew it, Lydia knew it, some of their friends had basically guess it. They did not speak much now of Solf.

Lon, less than a year in the grave, was another story. His room in life had become his shrine in death. Lydia came here often. Too often, James thought. Dozens of photographs of their lost son decked the room, from scenes of his childhood to a portrait pre-dating his death by mere days. He had always loved having his picture taken. In retrospect, it felt to James as if Lon had known his time on this earth would be short and thus it was important to leave behind a record of his life. He had never quite reached any of his goals. He had died unaccomplished, premature. Twenty-two was adulthood, but James could see how sheltered and meek he had been. At twenty-two, Lon was only a boy. A boy who trusted his brother, just as his parents would've wanted him to. A boy whose trust had been betrayed.

Solf had helpfully sent his brother's things back to them (although the picked-through nature of the notebooks made James suspicious that everything had not necessarily made its way to them). For Lydia, every item had become a relic. She was on the floor now, on her knees, clutching a framed copy of her favorite photograph of him. Her hands were trembling and her copious tears flowed over the glass.

In the photo, Lon was just a little boy wearing a sailor suit. Lydia had always loved both her sons. Honestly, James thought she had been too soft on Solf. Lon, on the other hand, had been a good boy, even if he had been babied. And remembering this made his eyes suddenly swell with tears. Dressed in that sailor suit, Lon had traveled with his father to South City for the first time. Both boys had come along, but it was Lon whose cuteness and curiosity made the trip memorable. "Dad," Lon had said, "The city is so big! But because I'm with you, it's amazing, not scary."

James had always wanted the boys to call him "Father," but they had only called him "Dad." He looked back now into his memory and heard the echoes of Lon's voice, soft and caring. "Dad."

James sunk down beside Lydia. He had been numb for so long, or perhaps he had been focusing his thoughts too strongly on Solf. But now, at last, his feelings were coming in line with hers. "Lydia," he put an arm around her shoulders, "He was a good boy. We were lucky to have him." Now the tears were running down his face too. Images met and mixed in his mind- of a little boy running along the length of the train car, of a child trailing patiently after his brother, of a funeral for a young man, dead before he left anything anyone outside his family would remember.

Solf, he imagined, would never come home- not that he would ever dream of telling Lydia that. His older son would leave behind no heirs or legacy. He would not inherit the house or factory. Supposedly he had been made a State Alchemist. Now he would serve the state (better than he'd served them?). Now he might die on the Ishvalan front for the state if his work off the field didn't please them well enough. James wasn't so sad when he imagined that son coming home in a box. A funny little boy had grown up into a dangerous and disturbed man. James swore silently that his room would not become this sort of shrine when he died (they'd outlive Solf too- James could feel it).

Four days of major pain developed for the family, strung out across the year. Lydia could be counted upon to spend all of them in Lon's old room. Solf's birthday- the son they did not speak of. Mother's Day- which gave Lydia no pride. The death day- that drew James drooping to the grave. While he brought white flowers, for several years he found he had been beaten to the spot with red ones.

And, arguably worst of all, Lon's birthday. When he would've been twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five...

Oct. 10, 1915

He was a free man again. Well, not free from work, but he was glad for that. Free as in "not imprisoned." He brushed back his hair and appraised himself in the mirror. There were lines beneath his eyes he didn't remember. His hairline had crept back too. He wasn't in such good shape anymore, but he was thin (maybe thinner than when he'd come in) and still fit his suit. Properly attired, he was his old self again.

He had one question for the officer who reissued him the belongings he had arrived with. "What's the date, officer?"

"October tenth," she said neutrally.

"October tenth," the man repeated. He never forgot the meaning of a date. He smiled and signed off on the form, verifying that all his possessions were accounted for. "That's a lucky day for me."

"Now it must be," the officer flashed him a lop-sided grin. She found it just as strange as the others, from the warden on down, that death row's #29 was being released. This was a man who had good luck turning up in the strangest of places.

"Well, this is luckier than it's been," he reflected, "But it's been a good day for a very long time."

Business before pleasure, but once the day's work was complete, the newly released agent of the state retired to his temporary quarters at the hotel and picked up the phone.

"Can you connect me with your southern area branch? Yes, I'll hold. Thank you. ...Ah, hello! I'd like to order a bouquet. One dozen red flowers- yes, mixed. No, not roses. ...Gerbera daisies, perhaps? Well, any are fine. ...Yes, that'd be lovely. Yes, thank you. Now, about the delivery... I want them sent to the Fernburg- what's that? You want me to do the card first? Ah... "Dear Lon, To gain something, you must first make a sacrifice. Thank you for everything." My name? No, no signature on it, please."


End file.
